|Miss One Sunday and Pepper-kitten takes over|
Hey, hey, there Muser Friends and Family!
Sorry for missing you last week, but the bronchitis plague hit my household and knocked all three adults out for the count. Yup, flat out on our butts with only the tween healthy and active. Can't say we're all bouncing back in perfect health, but at least I can see straight again.
So, last week's musings is this week's musings and next will be this...uhm, yeah, let's just forget all that and go for this writing exercise:
Describe a non-descript street, building, person, or meal.
We'll title this one...make the boring worth reading
On your mark, get set, go.............
MARGARET FIELAND, author
The stone buildings, grayed with the grime of fifty years, hung over the narrow sidewalk. The sky held the last of the light as a stray ray of sunshine slanted through a gap in the wall of buildings. Through the opening, Lydia spied a courtyard. She stopped to stare at the bright red and blue striped umbrella which shaded a redwood picnic table flanked by two benches.
What was it doing here? Yesterday when she'd passed by on her way home from work the courtyard had been empty. She move closer to get a better view. On the ground, a heap of broken dishes and the remains of several sandwiches already being fought over by a flock of pigeons.
And a body. If Lydia wasn't mistaken, a dead body. What should she do now?
DAWN KNOX, author
Swirls of yellow grease trailed behind Jenny’s spoon as she trawled through the lamb stew, searching for something that looked vaguely edible.
“Stop playing with your food, Child!” snapped Aunt Sophie, “hasn’t your mother ever told you it’s bad manners?”
“Sorry, Aunt. I’m not feeling too well…” said Jenny, hopeful that she’d be excused.
“Well, eat up. There’s nothing of you, Child. No wonder you’re so peaky.”
Jenny sighed. There would be no escape from the lamb stew.
Lamb spew, she thought with disgust.
When Mother had delivered her at Aunt Sophie’s an hour ago, the house was redolent with the smell of cooking. Not like the delicious aromas that filled Mother’s kitchen. No, this was the stink of cheap ingredients being boiled to oblivion - and beyond.
“I’ll be as fast as I can,” Mother had whispered when she kissed Jenny goodbye.
Hurry up, please! thought Jenny.
A piece of potato stood above the gravy, like a volcano rising out of the sea. She couldn’t imagine how it had retained its shape after being stewed to submission. Certainly most of the other vegetables had turned to an unrecognisable mush - their colour and consistency having leached away. Jenny fished out the potato lump and held it against the side of the bowl to allow the grease to slide back into the gravy. She placed it gingerly in her mouth where it spontaneously collapsed to an oily, texture-less sludge and she swallowed quickly, fighting the urge to gag.
The more she moved her spoon through the gravy, the more the vegetables disintegrated into an amorphous, grey slop. She hadn’t considered the similarity between the two words ‘Grey’ and ‘Gravy’ before, but now, she stared into the ‘Grey-vy’, wondering how much longer she could just move it about before Aunt Sophie got cross.
A piece of meat bobbed to the surface and Jenny scooped it up in her spoon. Like the gravy, it too, was grey, with a knobbly vein of gristle running through it and she buried it quickly beneath the sludge.
“Come on, Child. What is the matter with you? There’ll be no dessert unless you eat up every scrap of your lunch.”
Well, there was a silver lining, Jenny decided. At least she wouldn’t have to eat the glutinous, frog spawn-like tapioca pudding she spotted earlier in the kitchen.
MARY-JEAN HARRIS, author
It was a miserable day for dog-walkers. The sky was a massive stretch of motionless grey clouds. The fall leaves were dull yellow and splotched with black. The sidewalk and the sky might have been one and the same, and the only vibrancy was the contrast that a brick wall made with the drab world surrounding it. There was no wind, no motion, and the world might well have been a sigh frozen in space.
No one was out, that is, except for Henry. Henry, the dog who walked alone.
SUSAN A. ROYAL, author
The knob rattled, and the hinges squealed when the door was opened, allowing daylight to creep across dusty, worn floorboards. A young couple stood in the doorway, the dust motes dancing in the must air making them sneeze.
The young man stepped across the room, raised the blinds to let in more light, and the shadows retreated under the shabby couch where they lurked, waiting. To the right was a tiny kitchen and through the door on the left a small bedroom, leading to an even smaller bathroom.
He turned to the girl with hesitation. “What do you think?”
“It’s perfect.” She smiled and linked her fingers through his. “Our first home.”
Thanks for joining us and see you next week!
If you have a question or comment you’d like us to muse upon, do not hesitate to contact me Christine Steeves-Speakman at MuseChrisChat@gmail.com